Page 7

Something in her tone makes my blood run cold. For the first time since this whole fucked-up adventure began, a tendril of genuine fear curls through my chest. Not the fun kind that makes your clit throb and your heart race—the kind that tastes like metal and makes your hands shake.

"Am I in danger?" The question slips out before I can stop it, small and pathetically human.

Killion stops pacing. His expression shifts—just a flicker, gone so fast I almost miss it. Not sympathy, exactly. Recognition. He's seen this moment before in other recruits. The instant when the game becomes real.

"Everyone in this building is in danger, every second of every day," he says, voice flat. "That's the job you signed up for."

I swallow hard, the fear twisting, transforming—not gone, but changing into something else. Something electric. The same sick thrill I used to chase in club bathrooms with strangers' hands around my throat.

"Good," I say, straightening my spine. "Boring is worse than dead."

There it is—something like approval in Killion's eyes. Brief as a camera flash, but real.

"The man in the gray suit," Sienna says, pulling a tablet from somewhere in her tactical gear. "Can you describe him? Height, weight, distinguishing features?"

I close my eyes again, reconstructing him from memory. "Six-one, maybe 190. Athletic but not showy. Mid-forties. Eastern European features, possibly Russian or Ukrainian. No visible scars or tattoos. His watch was interesting—vintage Omega, the kind intelligence officers wore in the Cold War."

When I open my eyes, they're both staring at me.

"What?" I ask.

"Your observational detail," Killion says. "It's exceptional."

"I told you," I shrug. "I notice things. Especially about men. It's how I've survived this long."

Sienna slides the tablet across the table. On it is a grainy surveillance photo of a man matching my description, entering what looks like an embassy.

"Is this him?"

I study it, then nod. "That's him. Who is he?"

"Alexei Volkov," Killion says, the name heavy with history I don't understand yet. "Former FSB. Now private sector, which means he's more dangerous, not less."

"He's a cleaner," Sienna adds. "Among other things."

"A cleaner who got there after I left," I point out. "So either he was following Reese, or..."

"Or he was following you," Killion finishes.

The room seems to shrink, the red light pulsing like a wound.

"If he wanted me dead, I'd be dead," I reason, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds.

"Unless you weren't the target," Sienna says. "Yet."

"Enough," Killion cuts her off. "We're moving to containment protocol. Landry doesn't leave the facility until we know exactly what Volkov was doing there and who he's working for."

"Fuck that," I protest. "I'm not sitting in some underground bunker while?—"

"Yes, you are," Killion slams his palm on the table. "Unless you want to end up like Reese. Or worse."

"There's worse than a bullet to the brain?" I challenge.

His eyes lock with mine, hard as granite. "Much worse. And Volkov specializes in it."

The fear's back, but so is that other feeling—that dark, twisted excitement. The dance with death that's always turned me on more than it should.

"Fine," I concede, but I can't resist adding, "but when you figure out what's going on, I want in. This is my operation now too."

Killion snorts. "This isn't a democracy."

"No," I agree, leaning forward. "It's a mission. And I just proved I can get results no one else could. Volkov saw me with Reese, which means I'm already connected. Use me."

The double entendre hangs between us, deliberate and loaded.

"Use me," I repeat, voice dropping lower. "Or waste me. Your choice."

Sienna makes that sound again—almost a laugh—and Killion shoots her a look that could strip paint.

"72-hour lockdown," he says finally. "Then we reassess."

It's not a yes, but it's not a no either. I'll take it.

"One more thing," Sienna says, her slate eyes calculating. "The drug you used on Reese. Was there any possibility of adverse effects? Anything unusual in his reaction?"

I think back to Victor's glazed eyes, his slurred confessions, the way he folded into unconsciousness like a puppet with cut strings.

"No," I say confidently. "Textbook response. By morning he would've had nothing but a hangover and some very uncomfortable feelings about his mother."

"And the suggestion," Killion presses. "Was it verbal only, or did you use physical triggers?"

"Verbal primarily," I reply, wondering where this is going.

"Though I was sitting on him when I planted it—my hand on his chest, his cock desperate to be inside me again, whispering directly into his ear while the drug had him completely open.

Maximum physical and psychological penetration. " I tilt my head. "Why?"

Killion ignores my question. "Your pendant. The one that matched his mother's. Did he comment on it?"

“No, barely noticed. He was more transfixed by my tits —as he should be.”

Killion and Sienna exchange another one of those loaded looks.

"What?" I demand. "What are you not telling me?"

“Watch yourself. You're an asset," Killion reminds me, voice cold as liquid nitrogen. "A useful one, but still just an asset. Remember your place."

The door hisses open, and he's gone before I can argue further, leaving me alone with Sienna.

She stares at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, so quietly I almost miss it:

"You knew exactly what you were doing with that suggestion."

I hold her gaze. "I'm a fast learner."

A smile ghosts across her face. "Maybe too fast. Be careful, Landry. Not everyone here appreciates initiative."

She turns to leave, but I catch her arm. "Sienna. What's really going on?"

She glances at my hand until I release her, then meets my eyes.

"Victor Reese wasn't just laundering money," she says finally. "He was moving something much more valuable. Information. The kind people like Volkov kill for."

"And now I'm connected to it," I realize.

She nods once, sharp and precise. "Welcome to the big leagues, Landry. The game just changed."

After she's gone, I stand alone in the red-lit room, adrenaline and something darker pulsing through my veins. My body still carries the marks of Victor Reese's hands, but now they feel different—not like victory trophies, but like breadcrumbs leading somewhere dangerous.

And fuck me if I'm not dying to follow them.